I can hear you caring
by FugitiveJuliana
Summary: I different take on Halfwit. Cameron doesn't care that House is dying. Or does she?


**I can hear you caring**

"Can we concentrate on our patient, please?" Cameron said annoyed. 

"Cameron, what's going on?" Chase asked. 

"Nothing." 

"You just wanted us to forget about House's cancer and concentrate on the patient. That's not nothing. You're in love with the guy," Chase insisted. Foreman wasn't paying attention to them, he was concentrating on the image of their boss's brain and the unoperable tumor. 

"He's not our priority. If he doesn't want help it's a waste of time trying to offer it to him," she snapped, her cheeks flushed and eyes moist. 

The door opened and House limped into the room. The air suddenly felt thick with tension. House noticed something had been going on, but couldn't quite determine what. 

"Could we concentrate for a minute on our patient?" he snarled when he noticed the pictures in Foreman's hand. Cameron turned to Chase making a face that clearly said "Isn't that what I said?", but House couldn't think how that could fit with Cameron. He expected her to be the most insistent on trying to find a cure for her dying boss. He must have misinterpreted her reaction. 

"They just wouldn't listen," she told him and he raised his eyebrows perplexed. 

He was trying to get to the bottom of things all day; unsuccessfully. Cameron was very consistent in showing that she didn't care. She brought him a letter of recommendation to sign for another job she had already applied for. He asked her whether she was certain she wanted to leave. 

"You won't be here much longer so why do you care?" she retorted. 

He was left with nothing to say. Was she pretending? The anger in her eyes tried to convince him she was serious. 

"What will you do?" she asked. "With your remaining six months? Will you resign and travel around the world all by yourself, or will you invite all the hookers you had to a party at your place?" She paused, relishing the shocked expression on his face. "But as well as I know you, you'll probably just overdose on Vicodin and choke to death on your own puke before the pain even starts." 

Was she in shock? he wondered. Is it possible that she's so hurt, she doesn't know what she'd doing? He knew it had to be a rational explanation to all this. She just wasn't her usual self. He knew she still had feelings for him. She had to. 

"You're a coward, Gregory House. And always will be because you don't have the guts to face pain like the rest of us." 

She took the envelope from his limp hand and stormed out the door. He had a hard time getting to his chair. The hairs on his nape bristled from the spite in her words. For a second he couldn't get the air to reach his lungs in large enough quantities. He bent forward, leaning his forehead on the cool table. He was confused, insulted and maybe just the tiniest bit hurt. 

House began to feel like a primary school teacher because every time he entered into a room with the ducklings they suddenly went quiet, hiding things behind their backs, throwing furtive looks between them. Only Cameron usually stood stubbornly on the side, sulking. He suspected she was acting and he wanted to see how long this would last. What it would take for her to break. 

He was having lunch with Wilson in the cafeteria. 

"What's with Cameron?" Wilson asked. "Yesterday I asked how she was holding up and she nearly bit my head off." 

"Oh, she's just trying to show me how tough she can be," House dismissed it with a wave of his hand. 

Wilson raised his eyebrows, perplexed. 

"She's trying to get back at me or something by pretending she doesn't care that I'm gonna die. She's going to break. I just want to see how long it takes." 

"You're making an experiment out of her grief?" Wilson asked shocked. 

"Why not? If she's so adamant about not caring why should I care?" 

"You're … despicable." 

"She'll break. Soon," House repeated, ignoring Wilson's indignation. 

They both started when Cameron appeared at their table, handing House a folder. 

"You need to sign this so we can proceed with the treatment of the patient," she said indifferently. 

House pretended to flip through the pages and then said, "Must make sure I'm not signing permission for you to do tests on me." 

"Why would we bother?" she shrugged and then looked at Wilson. "Having the last supper?" 

Wilson nearly choked, but House chimed in, "Only if you're my Judas." 

"Because you're the savior?" she mocked, turned on her heels and walked out of the cafeteria with the folder under her arm. 

"Oh, yeah. She'll break. She's already cracking up," Wilson said, throwing a napkin onto the table, not sure whether he was more pissed at House or Cameron. 

House, meanwhile, remembered her words. "You're a coward, Gregory House." They resonated through his brain with a painful echo. 

In the morning, things were still the same. Foreman kept suggesting solutions, experimental treatments, ways out where there weren't any. Chase hugged him, for chrissake. Cameron looked steely, only her eyes seemed more tired than the day before. She didn't look at him, her posture was so rigid it hurt to look at her. He began to realize what was going on. 

His suspicions were confirmed in the evening when he entered the locker room at the end of the shift. He stopped in his tracks when he heard Cameron and Chase talking between the two rows of lockers. He slid behind the wall so they wouldn't notice him. He'd done worse than eavesdropped. 

"It's stupid, Allison," he heard Chase say with an uncharacteristic vehemence. 

"I don't care." 

"But that's the point – you do care!" 

"If he doesn't give a shit, why should we?" she persisted. Her voice was crackling like bone china hurled at the wall. 

Silence. 

"Cameron, you don't have to pretend in front of me. I saw you cry yesterday and I've seen my mom use makeup to hide the dark circles under eyes and the paleness from lack of sleep. I'm not daft." 

"So?" What was supposed to sound nonchalant, sounded almost hysterical. 

"So, you're killing yourself over a guy who doesn't care about you. Is it worth it? Did you sleep at all these past few days? From the way your hands shake I'm guessing you drank enough caffeine to keep an army awake." 

House was surprised by Chase's powers of observation. He didn't think him so observant. Or smart enough to connect the dots. 

"I'm a grown up, I know what I'm doing. You don't have to lecture me," she said stubbornly. 

A locker door closed. 

"I'm not lecturing you. I'm just trying to help." 

"I'm not the one who needs help." 

"So you admit that House needs our help?" 

Another long pause. 

"He's dying, Chase. How could we possibly help him if he can't even help himself," she whispered resignedly. 

Chase laughed shortly, then said disbelievingly, "You married a dying man to be there for him, but you won't even tell House how devastated you are because of what's happening?" 

"Just … leave it alone, Chase." 

He heard her steps and Chase's words as he said after her, "I just don't get it." 

The door to the locker room closed as she disappeared in the hallway. House waited for Chase to exit, before he walked out so engrossed in his musings that he nearly ran into Wilson. 

"What were you doing in the locker room?" asked Wilson. 

"Spying on young female doctors changing their clothes." 

Wilson shook his head but didn't have time to ask his friend how he was feeling because House already limped to the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. 

"This hospital is going nuts," Wilson murmured and continued towards Cuddy's office. 

She sat on her couch defeated. This pretending was sapping her life out of her. She didn't even know anymore why she was being so stubborn. She wanted to hurt him, because she felt hurt. Worse than hurt, actually. She felt broken, robbed. She couldn't even begin to understand that in six months time House won't be there anymore. He'll be gone forever. He'll never know how much she actually cared, he'll never have kissed her or tell her that maybe they had a chance. It'll be like losing her husband all over again, only with him she'd known he loved her back. 

She threw another tissue, wet with tears, onto the coffee table. It just wasn't fair that she always cared so much. Caring was so hard. Especially when no one cared back. If he only acknowledged that her being there for him meant something. 

A knock on the door startled her. It was late, she couldn't imagine who could be visiting at this hour. 

She looked through the peep hole and her heart nearly stopped. 

"House, what are you doing here? It's late," she said not nearly as convincingly as she wished. 

"Stop the hardass act, Cameron," he snapped and pushed her aside to enter. 

She stood shocked by the door as he walked to the window, turning his back on her. 

Finally, she closed the door. 

"How long do you intend to go on like this?" he asked her reflection in the glass. 

"Like what?" 

She was afraid he'd turn to look at her because she knew, in the privacy of her home, with just the two of them, she couldn't bear to look him in the eyes and say she was indifferent. 

"Like this new you? I don't think even lobotomy can change a personality this much." She could hear the smirking in his voice. 

"My personality is the same. I'm just fed up with you." Her voice shook and she hated it. "Want a drink?" she tried to ask casually. 

He ignored her question as he turned to her, watched her for a moment, her almost scared eyes and the pale face, then went to sit on the couch. He patted the spot next to him and she wanted to refuse but she saw something in his expression. Something new, that she'd never seen there before. 

She sat down with a rigid back, her hands hidden between her knees. She was staring straight ahead, waiting for his next move. She wondered whether generals in the field felt like this during a war of nerves. If they did, she wouldn't want to be them. 

She felt the touch of his hand on the small of her back. Her insides jolted, but she didn't show any reaction. 

"Let's stop pretending," he said. If it were any other person but House, she'd think he'd said it softly. 

"Who's pretending?" she asked stubbornly. 

"Everyone," he answered again with his characteristic mocking voice no one could misinterpret. 

"You won't be able to last much longer," he said almost cheerfully. That second she almost hated him. Almost. 

"Come on, Cameron," he insisted. "I've seen my mom use makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes and the paleness from lack of sleep and crying." 

She recognized Chase's words. He'd heard them. 

"You bastard," she whispered, losing her voice because the anger that shook her insides. "You were eavesdropping. Is there anything that you'd find too immoral to do? Anything at all?" 

He pretended to consider this. "No." 

She wanted to stand up, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back down roughly. 

"You do care and you do feel sorry for me," he said."And you know how I can prove it?By the way how you'll be relieved if I tell you I don't have cancer." His eyes were scanning her face like CAT scan, seeing far further than she'd want. Because for a long moment when she wondered whether he was telling the truth she let herself hope. Then doubt settled in. 

"What?" 

"I don't have cancer. Those scans weren't mine, I don't have a tumor in my head, I just wanted the people in Massachusetts to think that I do." 

She realized he couldn't have made that up. But it didn't make sense, either. "Why?" 

"So they'd implant a drug in the pleasure center of my brain," he said and he even dared sound sheepish for a moment. 

Cameron blinked. It took long moments before his words actually made sense. "You faked cancer?" She breathed in deeply. "To get … high?" 

He shrugged. 

She did break, just like House said she would. Something in her broke and she lashed out at him. She hit him with her fists, she didn't even see where. She hit again and again, her hands hurting from the rough contact with House's chest and face. She couldn't stop, she felt nauseous from the need to strike him hard, mercilessly. She kept beating him as he tried to grab her arms and stop her. 

"Cameron, stop!" he repeated several times but she didn't hear him. She started screaming. "You son of a bitch! You bastard …" 

She lost the force, with the next strike her hand landed limply on his shoulder, she didn't even have the strength to lift it again as her shoulders started to shake with sobs that contained all the sorrow from the past days. 

She wept like a child, wailing heartbreakingly, and he didn't know how to stop it. He patted her hand awkwardly, his heart beat frantically from fear she'd never stop crying again. 

"Cameron …" 

She hid her face in her hands, her whole body shaken by shivers of pain, relief, anger, shame. 

He placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to pull her to him and she leaned closer, her hands cupping his face and her lips connecting with his. He was taken aback, unprepared for this. He thought he should push her away, but she didn't give him a chance. 

She kissed him, still sobbing, tears smearing his cheek. The kisses were forced and desperate, until she calmed a bit, loosening her grip on his face, softening the pressure on his lips and he finally felt desire in her touch. That salty kiss stirred something inside, something that made him respond, kiss back. 

His hand found its way to the back of her head, pulling her closer, so she straddled him on the couch. His rough stubble grazed the gentle skin on her jaw-line, but she didn't shy away from it. She kept kissing his face, her eyes tightly shut, her breathing coming in painful gasps. His hand slid underneath her top, feeling the warm skin of her back, the soft curve of her right breast. 

As soon as she felt him pulling away, her hand grabbed him, trying to keep contact with his skin. 

"Cameron," he groaned. 

She opened her eyes, moist, dark, consuming. 

"Stop, this is insane," he said, breathing heavily. 

"Why?" 

"Have you even considered the absurdity of the situation? You beat me because I told you I faked cancer and a second later you're all over me." 

She stared at him for moments, just taking in the sight of him, of his lively eyes, the fact that he didn't have cancer. 

"But you're alive, you're not going to die," she said in awe. 

"I was never going to die," he countered. 

"I didn't know that." 

"It doesn't matter. You're doing this for the wrong reasons." 

"Why should you care? Consider this a good deal," she said almost desperately. 

"Huh?" 

"I'm sure all your hookers are far more expensive than me, so why not use this opportunity," she said with a broken voice. 

"Cameron, don't do this to yourself." This was too much for him. He hated it when people were all emotional. He didn't know how to deal with it. He didn't want to have to deal with it. 

"What does it matter whether it's a hooker or me …" she started crying again. 

"Allison, don't compare yourself to a hooker. You can't possibly believe you're anything like them …" He was trying to tell her something, but the words coming from his mouth just didn't express the right meaning. 

"I can arouse you, too," she insisted as her hand went to his crotch, stroking his hard on through the jeans. His grip on her back tightened and he sat up more rigidly. 

"Oh, you can do a lot more to me than that," he breathed, "but it's just not right." 

"And you care about right or wrong since when?" 

"I don't." 

They stared at each other in a standstill. He noticed she was careful even now, going through a huge emotional turmoil, not to place her weight on his bad leg. Always the caring one. 

"I care …" he started, then went silent. "Hurting you is not an option since we work together," he said instead. 

"Since we work together?" she repeated with a disbelieving smile. 

"I'd have to watch your moping face everyday," he said lamely. 

"I see," she said and stood up. She turned away from him for a moment and then said, "In what extreme, life-threatening circumstances would you be willing to admit that you actually feel something for anyone? For example, Wilson. Or me. Is there the slightest chance for you to ever say directly that you don't want to hurt us because you simply care too much, and not make it all into a joke every time?" 

He fumbled for his cane that fell to the floor some time during Cameron's outburst. He stood up slowly, his bad leg not the only restriction this time. 

"What difference would it make?" he asked walking back to the window. 

"To the caring people it makes all the difference." 

She stepped behind him so she could see his reflection in the glass, destroying his hiding place. She put her hand on his shoulder. 

"It makes all the difference, House," she whispered again. 

Not being able to stare out the window without her eyes staring back at him, so softly, he lowered his gaze to the floor. 

"It shouldn't make a difference whether _I_ care or not," he finally said, thumping with his cane on the soft carpet. 

"Because you're so very unimportant?" 

He chewed his lower lip before he turned and with blazing eyes said, "Because you're nothing like the hookers you compared yourself to earlier. But I _am_. Why do you think I only feel comfortable with them?" 

"Let me tell you why," she said very calmly, placing her hand on his cheek, but he shrugged it off. "Because they don't give a damn about who you are and so you can't disappoint them. That's why you're comfortable in their company." 

"I don't give a damn if I disappoint you, either!" he spat. 

She could read him now, she understood his fierce stare and the white knuckles from gripping the cane too tightly. She didn't have to be afraid anymore. 

"Well, then, you won't resist having a relationship with me, will you? After all, if it all goes to hell, why should you care?" She shrugged, looking at him innocently. 

"How many times do I have to tell you, I don't want you," he yelled. He was at the end of his tether, his voice shook from the tension inside. 

"Oh, yeah, I saw a few minutes ago just how much you don't want me. It was very _hard_ not to feel it." She knew she was being almost cruel, but so was he. 

He had to give her credit, this time she was way ahead of him and he was running out of believable excuses. 

He pushed past her to walk to the door, but she was faster and she stopped in his way. 

"Get out of my way, Cameron!" he threatened with his cane. 

"Or what? You're gonna spank me?" she said, a smile lurking just below the surface. He could still see the traces of her tears, he remembered the grief-stricken face. That image of her wasn't something he'd soon forget. 

Thinking about it, he didn't notice her intentions and was again caught unprepared when she rose on the tips of her toes and kissed him. So soft, warm, pliable. It would be just so easy to give in, to never having to find another excuse again. But being a coward was even easier. 

She sensed his reluctance and broke the kiss, hugging him instead. Her hand went to his gray hair, stroking him gently. "I'm just glad you're back," she whispered and he had to think before he remembered that to her he had almost risen from the dead. But in truth, it had only been another stupid stunt of his that hurt her and others and he gained nothing with it. 

"Cameron …" 

Slowly he stroked her hair, amazed at this new feeling. Intimacy, warm feelings for another person, unrestrained emotions of any kind - these things that were so normal for other people were very rare for House. That was why they made him nervous, jumpy and overly cautious. Resentful even, because he wanted to experience them, but he was afraid. So when he suddenly realized what danger feeling that way meant, he stopped still. 

Cameron moved away and she was tempted to say he was still a coward, but didn't want to push it. Reminding him of it wouldn't help. 

"It's not so difficult," she said. "Just let go." 

He considered this, but found no answer to her words. She was so naïve. 

"I know you think I see the world through pink glasses, but believe me, I don't. This …" she pointed between them, "It can happen without the world coming tumbling down." 

He had to smile at that. Obviously, there were people that never lost hope. He told her that. 

"Oh, hope dies last, but it does die eventually. Just not yet," she smiled sweetly. 

He shook his head. She was incorrigible. Was it worth to persist when she was so stubborn? Wasn't it pointless because she would eventually have it her way anyway? 

"Tomorrow," he said and she looked at him questioningly. "At eight, I'll pick you up." He kept a serious face, trying to diminish his embarrassment to a minimum. 

Her grin widened and she just nodded. 

He walked to the door, this time she didn't try to stop him. She knew he'd be back. 

"And House …" 

He turned. 

"No more faking diseases." Only she could pull off that mixture of strictness and tenderness. 

He nodded and opened the door. 


End file.
